


Weekend Getaway

by BakerTumblings



Series: Eyes Wide Open [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Honeymoon, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Or Sex Holiday your choice, Smutty vs hinting at smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-09-01 18:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20262400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: Because I wasn't actually able to let this little series go without some relaxing fluff for the boys. I thought they deserved a little time away from their family demands.This piece is a little side-work from a series Eyes Wide Open, in which a relationship of John's from the past ends up resulting in a family increase on Baker Street. This installment will make much more sense if at least the first one, Quite an Eyeful, is read first.





	Weekend Getaway

John watched Sherlock blink once, frown, the left eyebrow slightly more furrowed. He blinked again, his head cocked to the side - just like his brother did, but he kept that to himself, remembering that it hadn't gone over well in the past, when he'd pointed that out - in that apparently Holmes' familiarity of an "I'm figuring things out" posture.

"Really?" His gaze lifted toward John's patient eyes, waiting, knowing the pause would be worth it. "Are you sure? And you've arranged --?"

"Everything yes. And of course I'm sure."

"You. Packed for me."

"Yes."

With a huff, he whirled on a heel, catching sight of the bags and obviously not trusting John even a little tiny amount. "You got my charger?" He stalked down the hall, on a mission. Disbelieving that John would have remembered everything.

"Yes."

John was close behind him, close enough to hear the murmuring, and they both stood looking into the bedroom. "Clothes."

"Three - no four sets. Pyjamas." John muttered rapidly, under his breath to Sherlock he mentioned something about not needing them much. "Both pair of your nice shoes, in addition to the ones you're wearing." Sherlock paused in the doorway, his hand on the door frame, to stare at John, as if by piercing him with his dagger-eyes he would be able to deduce any shortfalls, mis-steps, or forgetfulness. "It's only two nights, mind." John tried to reassure him. "Dressing gowns, if it's a mite cool. I got us an Airbnb. A simple place, but really quite nice."

"Says you." Sherlock opened the top drawer to find his sock index intact save the four missing pairs. Another drawer, pants, the same. He strode, business-efficient, to the bathroom door. "My razor. Shave cream?" There was a brief pause as John answered in the affirmative. "My toothbrush, oh," he said then could see that both his and John's were missing from the holder.

"And your shampoo, your conditioner, your posh ridiculously expensive gel, both brushes, your comb. That poncy spritz you like." John raised his voice, making sure to be loud enough for Mrs. Hudson and Molly to hear. "And we're not actually going that far, and we could, you know, make a chemist run if needed."

Sherlock stared hard at John, his eye narrowed, but John could see some trace albeit reluctant admiration for what he had in fact managed to pack. The tide of speculation was changing in his favour. With another raise of the brow, his eyes flicked to John's waist, lower, the faintest smile of anticipation on his face. "What about --?"

"Yes of course." John couldn't resist adding, quietly, "Though keep up this attitude with me and we won't be needing that."

Sherlock flicked off the light in the room as the group moved back toward the doorway. He and John fell into step together, John's hand lightly resting over the small of his back, fingers reassuring, touch grounding. A whole bunch of things came together at once, then, from Mrs. Hudson setting down a picnic basket of food and treats to Molly bringing in her own travel case and her own pillow (pink gingham with ruffles, but Sherlock's mind was whirling too fast to get the derogatory observation out of his mouth in time), and Sam excited too, his eyes bright. Rosie was a little slower, however, on the uptake figuring out what was going on.

"Who's leaving? What are the bags for? Why is Molly's pillow here? Can I get a new pillow?"

Sherlock's gears clicked into place, his mind finally putting all of it together. "No, you're staying, along with Sam and Molly. Papa and I are not."

John knelt next to her. "Remember, you and I talked about this just yesterday, and you did a great job keeping the surprise. Remember, I explained this?"

Rosie nodded, though she was not looking too happy about it.

"You and Sam are going to have lots of fun with Molly, and then we'll be back soon." John had taken a calculated risk telling her along with Sam, but it had been necessary - and worth it - to prepare both of them. The surprise was for Sherlock, and he didn't want to jeopardise it with a meltdown as they would be trying to leave. Preparations, so be it. And the kids had been distracted enough with a busy evening, things going on throughout the morning so far, and Sherlock - also with a bit of set-up - kept suitably engaged with another well timed project.

Rosie wasn't having it just yet. "I want to go too!" Her pout was exaggerated, her little eyes welling up, but Molly had not only anticipated it but was ready. "With you."

"You'll miss out, then, on the new nail polish I brought." Her voice was full of anticipation and did in fact grab Rosie's attention. Molly held a small bottle of purple sparkley glitter in her hand, and she shook it, rattling the little metal beads inside as they clicked against the glass.

Blink, blink. Rosie's lower lip stuck out still while she looked at the bags, at her papa, at Sherlock, at Molly, at Mrs. Hudson, at Sam, and then focused on the little bottle of glistening polish. "Can we do my toes too?"

Molly's arms were soon full of a vibrant and smiling Rosie, and the momentum of the room seemed to swell in a different direction. Crisis averted. "Of course!"

"I want to thoak my feet firtht!" When hyper-excited, the lisp was occasionally pronounced. John loved it; Sherlock not so much. All of them knew but didn't talk about why - that he'd been plagued with one as a child too, and the associations were most decidedly not all pleasant. John still hoped to see video proof of it one day.

Molly hugged her. "I've lots of things planned, we're going to have loads of fun. So let's say good-bye nicely, and then --"

"Bye papa, bye!"

John hesitated next to Sam, tipping the boy's chin up so that he could smile down into his face. Sam was also happy, fine, no concerns, and John ruffled lightly at his hair before pulling him into a brief hug.

A riotous jumble of people moving, of John and Sherlock being somewhat ushered toward the door, with Sherlock's questioning one last time, "You're sure you have everything --?" and John's patiently sighed response, "Of course I do."

Molly held one of Sam's hands, Rosie still in her arms, and Mrs. Hudson began to shoo them physically from the flat. There were quick hugs between all parties.

John needed just a little bit of clarification, and turned to Molly. "You have the --" _gifts I left for them, small little trinkets._ He had bought them each an activity book, a small model for Sam, a bead craft for Rosie, just something to make sure they didn't feel too neglected. And to assuage his own very small case of guilt at going off without them.

"I do," Molly assured him. "One for tomorrow and yes, also the day after."

"You'll call me if --?" John tried to ask Molly.

Rosie interrupted, beginning to demand something about nail polish, and patting at Sam's head because she could reach it from Molly's arms. "You could soak your feet too!"

"Oh, I don't think --" he tried to say.

Molly patted John's arm. "We're fine. And yes of course. But it shan't be necessary."

A backpack was shoved into John's hand, the matching larger case pushed into the hallway, and almost an afterthought, all of a sudden, the door to the flat closed. John and Sherlock were all alone, in the hallway. On the other side of the door, muffled talking, Molly, Sam, Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson's voice spoke the only understandable words: _Finally!_

"There's a car waiting," John said, quietly, beginning to lead the way down the steps.

Sherlock still needed a bit of convincing, but he did follow John to the door before speaking again. "Are you sure? We haven't left them like this, and ..."

On cue, some vigorous laughter sounded from within the flat upstairs. John smiled, patiently reassuring him. Sherlock, after all, hadn't had the days of planning and plotting that John'd had. "Truly, they're fine."

Their bags fit easily through the door, with only the wheeled suitcase bumping over the sill. "I understand that, John." Sherlock glanced up, back at John, and then added. "What I don't want, particularly, is for you to worry the whole time we're gone, and then I have to reassure _you_ continually."

"Oh I'm sure. It's fine, in fact, it'll be good for all of us. Molly's all set." John couldn't help the chuckle. "But I did catch that you're not worried about me, or about them - only how it might ultimately, negatively affect you."

"It's like we've only just met, after all these years."

"Wanker."

"It seems a bit extreme." There was a small purse of Sherlock's mouth, a pout perhaps, and then he spoke what was probably more on his mind. "You could have told me. I could have helped."

"You would have managed to talk me out of it, more likely."

"It's a lot of fuss. We had an evening out, let's see," and he tilted his head again - _Mycroft-esque_ \- and offered, "a couple of weeks ago?"

"Month and a half, actually." Sherlock grimaced, realising John was correct. "So, well," John nodded his head toward the waiting rental car that had he'd picked up earlier, and popped the bags in the boot. "I wanted to do something for you, for us. And to make it special. Just seems to me, we've hardly ever had time just the two of us. Seems there's always kids around. Or we're just too busy, or exhausted." He pulled the key from his pocket, offered it out to Sherlock with the implied offer that he could do the driving if he wanted. When Sherlock shook his head no, John continued, "So I thought this would be a nice gift to you. Our friends agreed. You've been so ... well, _mostly_ anyway ... gracious. Two kids is a lot. A year ago, it was just you in the flat. And look at us now. Every day, more chaos. And well, I just wanted to do something nice. A surprise."

"Two nights?"

"Yes. And other than that family get-away after the wedding, at that place Mycroft arranged, which was fine, I know, but that was all of us. We've never even had a proper honeymoon."

"You mean, sex holiday." Sherlock's smirk was quite endearing, and a brow raised as if daring John to argue with him.

"Fine. But if you want to fully embrace that, we should probably get going. Take advantage and not waste any time." John slid behind the wheel, waited until both seat-belts were fastened. "So," he smiled as he manoeuvred into traffic, "perhaps while we drive you can think of all the things we can't do at home, with the kids around, that maybe we could capitalise on now. Perhaps you can make a list."

"Drive, John."

"I am."

"Both hands on the wheel."

"They ar----_rrrre_." John's word choked in his throat as Sherlock's long arm sneaked across John's thigh to settle on his zip. He glanced quickly at the passengers seat, recognised the dangerous gleam in Sherlock's eye before turning very quickly to focus on the road again.

"No back seat passengers." His fingers pressed, wriggled, and John could feel his body already responding. Sherlock smirked. "How long's the drive?" John couldn't decide if Sherlock's calculated smile was sinister or impish.

"About an hour."

"Think you can last?"

John's mouth went dry. "Depends."

"Indeed." With his other hand, Sherlock plugged in his mobile, pulled up the GPS. "I'll be lowering your zipper soon." His voice, liquid sex, John thought helplessly, feeling the car heat up several degrees. "Give you some more room in there." His fingers wriggled, pressed. "You seem a little crammed. Can't say things like that with an audience." Long fingers turned down the climate control in the car and adjusted the fan, vents, and turned off the heated seats. "Enough of that, I think."

"Sherlock."

"You seemed warm enough that extra heat coming through the seat seems rather unnecessary."

"Why are you --"

"You mentioned this, all the things we can't do regularly. So given the lack of children present, I could also tell you that once we're away from all this traffic, if we were to find, for example, that the roads are mostly deserted." Sherlock hesitated, watching John swallow, his expression sort of amused, kind of pained, and very interested. "No one will notice if my head were to disappear from view."

"Watch the teeth," John cautioned.

Sherlock heard what John said and what John didn't say (and mildly surprised he didn't say no) and smirked even though John couldn't see the full force of it. "Then you watch the road."

"Oh god," John breathed as Sherlock's knuckles trailed down the inseam of his trousers. 

++

The Airbnb John had reserved was easily accessed, located a few blocks off the main street of the small town, chosen intentionally to be out of the way and obscure, within reason. John had selected it for the location, the amenities, and the proximity to a few restaurants, cafes, and a limited option of walking-distanced night clubs and bars if they chose. They'd barely set their bags and coats down inside the door and cast a quick glance around the simple but elegant cottage, before John pressed against Sherlock, advancing on him with a growl. "I think it's your turn to be just a little bit frustrated. Aroused. Hard. Teased." Firm lips, teeth, tongue, angled jaws, insistent hands - John leveraged it all along with the faintest appreciative grumble deep in his throat. The pent-up energy between them grew until John summoned his inner strength and stepped back. His eyes again bore into Sherlock's. "Take off your clothes." He didn't wait, but locked the door, assured himself that the blinds and curtains were drawn enough to ensure their privacy, and took the food into the kitchen. As promised, the refrigerator was somewhat stocked, and he added to it. Sherlock was still watching him when he glanced over his shoulder. "All of them. What are you waiting for?"

Cool blue eyes stared back at him. Silent, daring, challenging.

John could feel his muscle memory, the issuing of an order, the authoritative stance, bearing, and tone._ "Sherlock."_

"This seems pointless. We know where it's headed, why don't we just --"

"Strip."

Sherlock's fingers went to his shirt buttons, but it was with a flash of realisation, then a glare and a raise of a haughty eyebrow. Again. "Apparently when you asked me about things we can't do at home, that might have been the wrong question."

"Okay. Go on," John dared, knowing by the intensity of Sherlock's expression, his full stop deduction pose, that he'd come up with something.

"You asked what I thought about things we couldn't do at home, usually, without fear of being discovered. The correct question, the proper perspective, is actually all the things that _you_ miss, the things you would like to do. You apparently must feel like_ you're_ missing out. So don't couch this as a gift for_ me_." The shirt was opened, slid to the floor with a simple extension of Sherlock's arms and a quick shimmy. "Because I'm thinking this is a self-serving demonstration of yours. Not that I'm complaining. And barring pain play, bloodshed, or the addition of another person, I'm likely to be inclined to humour you on almost all of your deepest fantasies."

"Long as we're clear then, I have no problem with that." If Sherlock expected more protestation, he did not seem surprised as John continued, nodding his head toward the other man's waist. "Trousers. Off." The order was calm, direct, flat. "And then the rest."

++

Round one, a mutually satisfying, drawn out dalliance in the main room was followed by the eventual full disrobing of John, who had managed despite Sherlock's protests to stay partially clothed, and then the addition of dressing gowns and an already prepared, quickly reheated dinner courtesy of Mrs. Hudson. They carried plates to the table, decanted the wine, and meandered through a variety of subjects, observations, discussions of current events. Conversation was easy and all-over-the-place as far as random and casual. Eventually they pushed back mostly empty plates. Physical appetites satiated, John sipped at his glass of pinot noir and smiled. It was an easy, comfortable moment over the table. Sherlock smiled back, the small, slightly crooked one that few other people ever got the privilege of seeing.

"So, we could get dressed again, and go out. Do whatever we want. Stay out late. Not worry about a sitter or what time to be home."

Sherlock weighed his responses, thinking perhaps levity or issuing a demand of his own might be the most entertaining. Instead, though, he caught John's ankle between both of his under the table and waited a moment until he was sure John was listening. "You do realise that I enjoy both of the children. Being part of a somewhat - mostly - functional family." John nodded slowly, hearing the earnestness of whatever else Sherlock was going to say. "Rosie and Sam are fascinating, and demanding, and ..."

"... easily manipulated?" John asked, quietly, during Sherlock's pause.

The smile crinkles at the corners of Sherlock's eyes deepened, and they were heartfelt and kind. "I was going to say moldable. _Impressionable."_

"Subject to your charms, you mean."

"As are you," he said with a twinkle in his eye, and though the comment was humorous it was also quite true. "And we have been aware of that for many years. Thank god, otherwise ..." He cleared his throat. "But don't feel like you have to make it up to me, compensate me somehow. Don't get me wrong, I think this weekend is a necessary thing from time to time. But I don't want you feeling like it's an imperative or a score that needs to be settled." John inhaled, exhaled, letting the truth of Sherlock's words sink in. "Family is family, and I don't feel cheated or that I'm missing out any more than you do, or that you are. We're _not_." There was another smirk. "And I'm not the one that the press used to refer to as confirmed bachelor, either, as you recall."

"I just wanted to, you know, tell you I appreciate it, that I notice, is all."

"Your _mouth_ is being used for an awful lot of unnecessary justification, too much. Yammering. _That mouth_," he muttered as he emphasised the words, "could be much better used for other things, rather than saying stupid, idiotic, untrue, misguided, or misdirected statements." Silence stretched between them, both of them comfortable in it, for a little while.

"I think, then," John began, deciding not to take umbrage at the continual use of the word idiot in his direction, "that, if you don't have a preference, I would like to get dressed and go out. There are a couple of bars in walking distance, just a few blocks. I'd like to go out, where we'll know absolutely no one. Maybe listen to music, have a drink, show you off a little. Maybe," he mused, pointing at his own face, "put a beer in this _mouth_. For a little bit anyway. And when we get back, I may have some other ideas."

"Now you're thinking." Sherlock huffed a tiny, silent laugh. "It's about time."

++

Morning sounds in London were a far cry from the sounds in their weekend retreat, their getaway, their haven. Traffic was muted, muffled, much less in volume and what little there was, more steady in speed, less start and stop of the cars. No delivery noise could be heard. There were no horns, no screeching tyres, not nearly the amount of doors slamming, of footsteps, the hustle of commuters. There was no morning Speedys customers seeking their daily jolt of caffeine beneath them.

And no children above them. No sounds of feet on the steps, or the telly, or the loo, or when all was very quiet - _too quiet_ \- and John knew to get up because they were potentially getting in to something.

Which was why, when John rose slowly to the surface of wakefulness and tossed back the duvet, Sherlock clamped a restraining hand on his arm. "You don't have to get up, you know."

John briefly considered trying to drift back to sleep, knew the vague discomfort would prevent it. "Actually yes I do. Be right back." He shuffled quietly to the loo, and found the need to think about where the light switch was disconcerting, the placement of the plumbing unfamiliar, the toothbrushes resting on the sink edge instead of in their customary holders at home.

"Feel better?"

"Shut up," John murmured, but fondly. "We can't all be blessed with unlimited bladder capacity like you."

The curtains were more filtering as opposed to darkening, so the room was actually a bit lighter, but overall it was a very quiet, insular house. Quiet enough to hear the difference between a regular, normal breath and the deeper sigh of relaxation. "It's odd. Unusual. Not having anything particular to get up for."

The words settled, and a faint chuckle ruminated in Sherlock's chest as he considered the unintentional double entendre, and John followed, with a growling, "Oh, I'm bloody sure we can think of something." He rolled, his arm encircling Sherlock's waist, unrushed, his chest pressing up lightly against Sherlock's back as he wriggled in behind him. "Unless you'd rather just ... take a nap or something."

The giggle in Sherlock's chest rumbled and vibrated as he pressed his body back toward John, getting closer, his intention obvious as his hand went snaking around behind him, also unhurried into the warm spaces between them, seeking, finding, closing, stroking. "Or something, yes." 

++

John had lingered in that sweet spot of barely comfortably awake and still very relaxed when he heard quiet steps. He opened one eye at the intrusion.

"Brought you coffee." Sherlock, slightly rumpled, relaxed, slouching even, but holding two steaming mugs.

John had tossed, turned, rolled over, nodded back off to sleep, only vaguely aware that Sherlock had indeed finally crawled out of bed. The question, along with the fresh aroma of a hot beverage, was motivation enough to push up on an elbow, eyes open full. "God yes." He felt well rested, and it was glorious.

"I'll set yours, here. And climb in." Sherlock set one down, kept the other, and settled on top of the duvet. He'd managed to pull on the pair of pyjama bottoms that John had packed, but his feet were bare, long toes poking out, slightly bony and well manicured. John apparently stared at them a mite too long. "What? They're feet. My feet. Functional means of locomotion." He wriggled his toes, his tone faintly amused. "It's like you've never seen them before."

"Sorry, no. It's just ... something we don't usually get to do, lounge around abed like this. You, shirtless. It's nice." John sipped, sighed, sipped again. "Ahhh, nectar of the gods, I swear it."

"I'd offer you breakfast but it's nearly lunchtime."

"I'd offer you something else, but we already did that. Not to mention," John said with a cheeky grin at Sherlock as they both reclined against the headboard, "you're a mite overdressed."

++

Another round of coffee later, and a small meal, and they lounged around the house, vaguely referring to possibilities for the afternoon or evening now and again. Sherlock eventually began deducing the home's owners by their decor and library, while John unearthed a small, handheld puzzle contraption out of one of the cabinets in the sitting room. "They're immigrants from one of the former Russian countries. Uzbekistan perhaps."

John raised a brow. "You can't possibly know that just because they have a second printing of that book." He smirked. "Plus, the name of the contact via the website when I booked this was Francois. And I think his bio said he lives in Canada."

"You're so pretty." The slur was delivered with enough of a smile not to be as offensive as it could have been. "Seriously, no one gives real names on those sites. And not only Slavic heritage, but not especially bright, to leave this particular volume here. It's a limited edition and relatively valuable."

John tried not to roll his eyes, but Sherlock apparently heard it none-the-less. 

"What did you expect, bringing me to a place like this with all these odd clues left about. What did you think was going to happen?"

"Are you bored?"

"Why, are you offering to entertain me?" Sherlock wriggled his eyebrows in mock excitement and anticipation.

"Not exactly. But I was thinking of making dinner reservations. There were a couple of nice restaurant options nearby, walking distance, that got nice reviews. And there's supposed to be a very old, very historic cemetery not far from town. Maybe we could go amuse ourselves there, wander around for a little while on our way to dinner."

"Sounds delightful. I think I saw a shovel out back, and perhaps we can go dig someone up, show them a good time."

"No. I'm fairly certain people would complain. Starting right here with me, I would complain."

"Spoilsport." Sherlock sighed, considered his mobile for the time. "Did you want to check in with Molly at all?"

"Not especially. They know how to reach us. Why, did you?"

"No, but every now and again I can tell you're wondering. You get that little look about you," Sherlock had set the rare book back into the shelf where it had been.

"No, it's good. I mean, I know they're young, but this is quite nice, not having them here. It seemed smart, and now that we're here I'm sure of it. Molly's managed to deal with you all these years, I'm sure this will be a walk in the park." Shared smiles were exchanged. "We won't always have them, they'll grow up, leave, move out. Maybe move away. And we have things to look forward to. Eventually, oh I don't know, retiring or finding other things to do. Definitely our lives don't now, nor will they in the future, always involve them."

"Are you implying that we need a hobby?"

"I think we already have things to keep us busy. For now, my job, a passion for healthcare. Still the occasional adrenaline fix. You have the violin, your deduction website. Ash studies, perhaps. I'm not completely sold on your idea to eventually raise bees. Although the honey might be nice." John chuckled. "So do _you_ think we need more hobbies?"

"I offer again to go find that shovel."

"I think we could be food critics."

"Starting with dinner tonight?"

John shrugged. "After working up an appetite in the cemetery," and Sherlock mimed a digging motion with an inquisitive pleading look about him, "by not unearthing any remains, sure why not?"

++

Their shoes crunched a little over the gravel on the walking path as they headed back toward the house after a long, leisurely, relaxing dinner. The wait staff had been quite patient, but they did end up as the last patrons in the restaurant.

"I tell you, that death, all of those in that family, clustered around that date back in 1751, was suspicious." Sherlock huffed. "You should have let me bring it." He shook his head as if John were a great disappointment, his refusal to allow the shovel.

"No matter what, you can't just go around digging up mysteries."

"Not even when I'm Sherlock Holmes?"

"Especially then. Think of the press."

"Fine." Sherlock sneered just a little, and then slipped his hand into John's as they walked along in silence for a few blocks. "So, our final night away, and I'm still waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"Waiting for you to tell me what you're after. You know, that question about things we can't do at home."

"Oh, that."

"I knew it. Even in this light, this late at night, I can tell that you're blushing."

"Am not."

"John. Please. I know you, and that you're going to tell me anyway and that you're mildly uncomfortable asking for it, speaking up. So, here, I have opened the door wide for you to just blurt it out. What do you want?" Sherlock watched as John wrestled internally with how to say it, and when, or even if. Eventually, he stopped walking. John continued only a pace before stopping himself. Sherlock was giving John the opening, the opportunity, and some gentle impetus to speak up. _In for a penny_, John thought, but while he was mustering his courage, Sherlock spoke up again. "You know, the house is right there, up around that street. I don't know when we'll get this opportunity again. And now, I'm not going to ask you again. So make your choice carefully. What is it?" Sherlock shrugged, hoping his casual dismissal would loosen John's tongue. "Or not, makes no difference to me." He took one step slowly toward the house.

John waited only a moment before catching up. "All right, all right. It's just --" He steeled himself and spoke it out loud. "It's just, you're always so quiet."

"Quiet."

"You know, during. You barely even breathe hard. Never moan. You never make a sound."

"And this bothers you." Sherlock's eyes were steady, mind obviously working. "My self-control."

"It makes me wonder if it feels good, what feels good. I kind of ... I don't know, thrive on feedback."

"Listen, just because previously you had very vocal partners does not necessarily mean they were enjoying it."

"I disagree, mostly anyway. Sometimes, you just can't help it. And it's very hard to fake some of that, I'm just saying." John crammed his hands inside his coat pockets as they walked, still slowly enough to facilitate their discussion. "I don't mean to make you self-conscious about it. But seriously, I wondered perhaps if you were just so controlled, so aware of either Mrs. Hudson in the flat below us, or the kids in the rooms above, that you just are in the habit of being ... silent."

"Perhaps I'm offsetting you, because even you trying to be somewhat quiet, well, you aren't exactly. Perhaps I figure you're making enough noise for both of us."

"I just ... I don't know. With no kids around, I would ..." and John's sentence trailed off, worried that he had managed to offend somehow. "... I would just like to hear you." He made sure to lighten up. "But it's fine, either way. Just a random thought that had occurred to me, I suppose. And you asked."

Their steps slowed again as they reached the front of the house. "I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "I'm not sure I know how."

John's arm wrapped around his back, and he withdrew the house key from his pocket. "I know. But perhaps you can just do what comes naturally. Even just a little bit."

Their quiet discussion started in the sitting room as they flipped through channels and sipping small glasses of wine, remnants of the bottle they'd brought along. Rather quickly, sitting close turned to a few lingering touches, the release of a few buttons. Shoes ended up discarded, abandoned, cast off, shipwrecked.

Sherlock's fingers sought out a puckered nipple, and John, quite aware of the empty house, moaned softly. "Oh yeah, just like that," followed by a sibilant growl when Sherlock pinched. Pressing up on one knee to move closer, rising above where he'd been, John let a hand steal into the back of Sherlock's hair, wrapping around the back of his head, the curls somewhat shorter than years previously but still grabbable.

He coiled his hand, tugged, his touch firm and authoritative. And he was promptly rewarded by a quiet groan. From deep within his own chest, John echoed it, feeling an intense throbbing as a result, the noise penetrating to his very core. He'd caused that, he'd taken a little nick into Sherlock's armour. Whispering, he arched into the sensation, "Perfect, just like that, and more. God, Sherlock, I can't even tell you what that does to me ..."

"Oh, I think I can tell," he answered, his fingers lightly brushing over John's waist, his zipper, wrapping around to cup the back of his arse. "Let's take this ..."

"God yes."

The bedroom, warm and welcoming, was less echoing. The rest of their clothing slipped off, dropped where it fell, as they folded onto the bed in a tangle of legs.

"Come on, let me hear you," John whispered, tugging again at Sherlock's apparently very sensitive hair follicles. With his other hand, he let it splay down his chest, brushing lightly over the stripe of hair, dipping into his navel, going lower. He was rewarded by a delicious guttural groaning, the faint vibration of sounds trying to break forth.

Bringing his hand back up toward their faces, he pressed a finger into his own mouth, into Sherlock's, dipping into the moist heat, before making the trip back down to Sherlock's lower body. "Please, just let it out, god yes, for me," and his hand delved lower. Sherlock adjusted his knees, tilting his pelvis up toward John's seeking hand. John wriggled a slicked finger very neatly, gently, and slowly inside.

And there in the dimly lit room, so far from home, in the safe embrace where he had been coaxed, Sherlock _keened. _

++

Later, after they returned home to London, and even for a long time after that, when someone would ask about holiday, or about getting away from it all, mention family demands, both John and Sherlock would smile a very small, secretive smile. Most times, they would exchange a small "look" between them, a query, _do you remember_, an answer, _of course I do. _

Memories of the weekend were private and intimate. Their two-night stay, their break, had been a cozy little place where they'd taken time for just each other. They'd found a secluded garden terrace in back of the house. They lounged around, reconnected, uttered the occasional curse word without needing to cover it up or immediately apologise or explain to the children - again - about appropriate language. They shared their thoughts and their bodies.

Sherlock begged for mercy, twice. Words had actually been largely unnecessary. Sounds, though, had been slow to arrive, sweetly savoured, and vastly encouraging.

Most of the ride home, John wore a very quietly pleased smile, the one that meant not only had he just experienced the best orgasm of his life but he had given one to his husband as well.

They were also quite glad to get home, where they were greeted by two open-armed happy children and an adult who were also pleased for the entire family.

Success.

**Author's Note:**

> While is used to be true that Martin Freeman did not know how to drive and did not possess a drivers license, sources now report that he now does in fact drive and has a license, apparently motivated by his role in Fargo. It used to bother me when his (unlicensed) character was behind the wheel, but now I suppose he (in either character) is free to do what he wants.
> 
> I think the place they'd rented probably had an outdoor firepit, or at least a fireplace, and Mycroft probably had any CCTV cameras in the vicinity disabled for the time they were there. I think John chose wisely, that getting away is an important part of their relationship. Maybe next time he'll leave the kids with Mycroft. Who will probably get them a puppy ;-)
> 
> ++
> 
> I thought I was done with this series last time, so I'm making no promises and still not marking the series as complete yet.


End file.
